The Accident
by b7-kerravon
Summary: A rain-slick city street, a drunk driver, an irate detective and a 'psychic' who tends to act without thinking...oh, this can't end well. Yes, I'm going to finish this story - chp 3 now up, and I'm working on 4!
1. The Accident

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Accident**

By KerrAvon

"Well, _that_ was a complete waste of time," spat Lassiter, as he slammed open the bar door and stomped out into the night, almost colliding with another man entering the sleazy hole-in-the-wall. As he screeched to a surprised halt, only Juliet O'Hara's lightning-fast reflexes kept her from plowing into his suit-coated back. She tried unsuccessfully to peer past his lanky form as he deeply inhaled, then let out an audible sigh.

"Spencer." The single word held volumes of nuance, mostly in tones of irritation. "Why am I surprised?"

"Lassie!" cried a familiar voice. Juliet finally managed to ease past her partner just in time to see the delighted grin spread across Shawn's face. Somehow she knew he wasn't there for a drink.

The detective crossed his arms suspiciously as his eyes narrowed. "If you've come to talk to Gloria Freeport, don't bother. She's so drunk she's practically comatose."

Shawn pasted on an innocent, surprised expression. "What? Ms. Freeport's here?" His gaze shifted past the two detectives and into the smoky gloom of the bar. "And I was just going in for a pineapple wine spritzer."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Sure you were, Spencer. The only wine in this place comes out of a box." Turning to his partner, he ground, "O'Hara, when you're finished, I'll be in the car." He pointed across the rain-slick street at his red Crown Victoria.

Juliet was apologetic. "I'll be right there, Carlton."

Lassiter nodded, then started across the street, muttering to himself. He never would understand O'Hara's fascination with that annoying charlatan. Juliet watched him go, then turned back to Spencer with a small smile on her lips. "Seriously, Shawn, she's completely nonverbal right now."

Spencer smirked and shook his head in mock resignation. "Jules, Jules, Jules. How many times do I have to tell you? My gift doesn't work that way. She doesn't have to say a…" He cut off abruptly, head jerking up. Taking in his surroundings in an instant, his trap-like mind registered the feel of cold drizzle down his collar; the sound of slightly squealing tires approaching too fast on the cross-street; the reflection of drunkenly weaving headlights in the windows of the building across the intersection; and the splashing footsteps of an irate detective who wasn't paying much attention to near-non-existent 2 a.m. traffic. His eyes widened as his mind played out the scene in a heartbeat and he drew the inevitable conclusion.

"Lassie!" he screamed as he whirled and charged towards the detective. "Watch out!"

Lassiter stopped dead in the center of the road and turned back towards the psychic in irritation. Arms stretched to each side in a 'what now?' gesture, he began, "Spencer, what are…" His words caught in his throat as the pickup truck rounded the corner, ran the stop sign, fishtailed haphazardly and headed straight for him. There was no time. He closed his eyes and mentally braced for collision, catching a glimpse of the driver's shocked, inebriated face as he did so.

The actual impact was much softer than he anticipated, and came from the side. Forceful hands jolted him from place, shoving him unceremoniously to the pavement behind his car before being swept away with a sickening thud. He opened his eyes in surprise as he heard the truck screech to a momentary halt before peeling away in panic, leaving a body motionless in the street.

The entire sequence had been dreamlike for Detective O'Hara. One moment she was being teased by the SBPD's 'psychic', the next he was running towards her partner and shouting. Time slowed to a near stop as she watched, horrified, as the beat-up Ford pickup blew through the stop sign and took the corner too widely. Shawn made a flying leap to push Carlton out of the way, barely managing to do so in time. He himself was not so lucky; the tackle that had saved the detective's life didn't quite clear the passenger side of the front bumper, which struck Spencer's legs and hips. The vehicle's velocity tossed him over the front passenger side quarter panel and into the street, where he rolled twice before coming to rest in a prone position, arms akimbo like a broken doll. The driver, shell-shocked, paused a moment before hitting the accelerator in a panic, tearing down the street and disappearing around the next corner. By this point Lassiter was pushing himself up from the ground while O'Hara sprinted towards the psychic's unmoving form.

"Shawn!" she screamed, praying against all odds that he would answer. Despite the distance, she reached the downed man just as Lassiter did.

"Spencer. Spencer, can you hear me?" Lassiter was uncharacteristically gentle as he grasped the psychic's shoulder and shook it.

"Lassie? … 'Zat you?" groaned the younger man. "Lass…'urts…" Eyes shut, he tried to roll over, only to wince and collapse back onto his chest with a moan.

"Shawn, don't move," Juliet placed her hands on his back to hold him flat as Lassiter whipped out his cell phone.

"I'm calling 9-1-1," he told her. "Keep him quiet."

Juliet nodded, pulling off her scarf to dab at Spencer's face. The drizzle had turned into actual rain by this point, mixing with the sweat on his forehead before running into the street. "Shhh, Shawn. It's OK. It's going to be OK…."

"Jules…" Spencer groaned, blinking open glassy eyes. He tried again unsuccessfully to roll onto his back, collapsing back to the pavement as O'Hara gently held his shoulders down.

"Shawn, don't move. You could have a spinal injury. You've got to stay _still_!" She didn't like how her voice quivered, so she swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath. "Please, Shawn. For me."

Despite only being semi-conscious, the psychic smirked slightly. "For you, J'les, 'nythin'…" he mumbled, allowing his eyelids to slide shut once more. His entire body relaxed as he slowly surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

Juliet looked up at her partner, who had just finished putting out emergency flares in the roadway to divert traffic around the downed man. After all, Spencer couldn't be moved and didn't need to be run over a second time. "Carlton, he's passed out!" she cried, a note of hysteria in her voice.

Lassiter jogged over to squat next to her and the prone form in the street. Placing his fingertips on Spencer's neck, he concentrated a moment, then nodded. "His pulse is a little rapid, but it's present. The ambulance should be here any minute." He glanced over at the doorway to the bar, surprised that no one had appeared to investigate the commotion outside, before standing and striding restlessly to the corner, peering down the empty cross-street in the direction of the hospital. Pacing back to his car, he keyed the radio and put out an alert on the make and model of vehicle that had struck the psychic, as well as a brief description of the driver. After two more anxious trips between the insensate private investigator and the corner, he sighed in relief to see flashing lights in the distance.

Upon arrival, the two paramedics wasted little time setting up their equipment. The driver was clearly older and more experienced, and sported a well-groomed handlebar moustache that matched his dark brown hair. The other EMT was tall, thin, and clean-shaven, with sandy-blonde hair that bespoke of time spent on the beach in his off hours. "Hi, I'm Sam. Can anyone tell me what happened here?" asked the senior man, approaching the two detectives, as his partner finished unpacking their equipment and efficiently began taking Spencer's vital signs without moving him.

"Hit and run," grunted Lassiter. "Car was going about 35 when it rounded the corner. Impact threw him into the air; he bounced on the pavement twice."

"Any other medical problems?"

"I'm not familiar with his medical history." Carlton turned a questioning eye to his partner. "O'Hara? You know of anything?"

Juliet, who had been staring unblinkingly at the proceedings, gave herself a mental shake. "No…I don't..." Her eyes widened as she turned a stricken face towards her partner. "Mr. Spencer!" she exclaimed. Addressing the paramedic apologetically, she explained, "I need to call his father, let him know what happened."

The man nodded. "Ask if the patient has any allergies to any medications or any serious medical issues." So saying, he knelt back down next to his partner, where they had a murmured conversation before contacting the hospital.

With the physician's blessing Shawn was soon wearing a cervical collar and had been log-rolled onto a backboard to stabilize his spine. An IV was placed as Lassiter watched, disconcerted by Spencer's uncharacteristic silence. The psychic's eyes remained mostly closed, although he would intermittently open them and look around uncomprehendingly.

"Yes, Mr. Spencer, the paramedics are with him now. They want to know if he has any allergies or medical problems." Juliet's voice as she spoke to Henry was actually easier for Carlton to understand than the conversation between the EMTs and the hospital. "Alright, I'll tell them." Twisting the phone away from her mouth, she addressed the two men working on her friend.

"Mr. Spencer says that Shawn's allergic to shellfish, but nothing else. No medical problems."

"Thanks, that could be important." Sam relayed the information over the radio to the hospital, then nodded as they confirmed.

Lassiter mentally muffled Juliet's continued conversation with Henry as he saw awareness dawn in Spencer's eyes. They darted frantically around the scene, absorbing each detail, only to finally fix on the detective. Licking his too-dry lips, the injured man grated out, "Lassie?".

"I'm here, Spencer," replied the head detective from his position behind the paramedics.

"…'K?" came the mumbled question. The soft tone was a disturbing juxtaposition to his clinically assessing eyes.

It took Lassiter a moment to realize that Spencer was asking if _he_ was all right. He shook his head in frustration. "Yes, Spencer, I'm fine. In case you hadn't noticed, you're the one who actually got hit by the car."

Spencer nodded fractionally, then allowed his eyes to slide closed once more.

"All right, we're ready to move him," announced the paramedic who had spoken earlier. "Cottage Hospital."

"Did you hear that, Mr. Spencer?" asked Juliet into her cell phone. "He's being transported to Cottage." A brief pause, then she nodded. "All right. We'll meet you there."

The backboard was lifted onto a gurney which was then loaded into the waiting ambulance, taking care not to jostle the injured man or his IV. The younger paramedic climbed into the back with Shawn and the radio as Sam closed the door behind him. Shooting the detectives a reassuring look, the older man stated, "We'll take good care of him. See you there.", before climbing into the front seat and starting the engine.

Lassiter and O'Hara were in the Crown Vic, siren blasting, before the ambulance had even pulled away from the curb.

TBC….

So, what did you think? Worth continuing?


	2. Trauma room

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Trauma Room

"All right, what have we got?" asked Dr. Lavely as he strode into the trauma room. He was a tall, thin man with wispy blonde hair who didn't appear much older than the residents he supervised. Nevertheless, he carried an air of authority that said "Staff Surgeon" better than any I.D. tag ever could.

"Twenty-nine year old male, motor vehicle versus pedestrian. Blunt trauma, mostly left side. Initial survey shows ecchymoses on the left chest and abdomen, with almost nonexistent breath sounds on that side as well." Dr. Lee, Chief Resident, was succinct. "Films pending, but we're setting up for a chest tube now."

"O2 Sat?" Dr. Lavely snatched the clipboard from the recording nurse and glanced at the vital signs himself.

"98 percent on room air, despite the apparent dropped lung. No evidence of alcohol, either." Dr. Lee replied as he finished opening the thoracostomy tray, then addressed Shawn. "Mr. Spencer, this is going to feel cold."

Shawn nodded, and Dr. Lee swabbed the left lateral chest wall with Betadyne to sterilize the area. Dr. Lavely came over to the right side of the psychic's face and addressed him. "Mr. Spencer? I'm Dr. Lavely, the attending surgeon on call tonight. Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah," panted the injured man. "Pushed Lassie…out of the way…of a truck. Didn't manage…to get clear…myself. Rest…is a blur."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

Shawn nodded as best he could in the cervical collar. "Think so."

Just then the radiology tech entered the room and threw a series of x-rays up on the viewboxes hanging on the side wall. "Films back!" she announced to the room in general.

Keeping his gloves sterile, Lee reached the x-rays just as Lavely did. "Lung's down, all right." He pointed out three fractured ribs on the left. "Probably secondary to that."

Lavely jerked his head towards the patient. "Go ahead, get the tube in. I'll check out the rest of the fims."

The heavyset oriental doctor nodded once, then turned back to his tray. A nurse held Shawn's left arm up and away from his side as Lee drew up the Lidocaine.

"C-spine's clear. So's the T and L-spine series," announced the attending to the room at large.

"Mr. Spencer, you have three broken ribs on your left side, and one of them has punctured your lung; that's why you're having trouble catching your breath. We're going to insert a tube in your chest to suck out the air leak and allow the lung to heal. I'm sorry, but it's not a very pleasant procedure."

"Can I be…knocked out…for it?" asked Shawn worriedly.

"I'm afraid not. We need you as alert as possible right now, until we know everything that's wrong."

Shawn nodded slightly, resigned, and closed his eyes.

"This is going to sting a little." Without waiting for acknowledgement, Dr. Lee began injecting the local anesthetic into the prepped area.

"No…kidding…" gasped Shawn, eyes flying open. The pain only lasted a few seconds before the area became comparatively numb.

"OK, I'm going to make a little incision here; you should feel pressure, but nothing sharp."

It was an odd sensation, but not too uncomfortable. Shawn relaxed slightly.

"Hemoglobin's 10.3, CMP is normal, U/A is clear," announced the voice of an unknown nurse, coming into the treatment room.

"Careful, Tony; might be blood in the chest." The attending's calm voice somehow carried over the din in the room.

"It's a 36 French, clamped on both ends," replied Lee. "And he's typed and crossed for four," he concluded. Addressing Shawn once more, he murmured, "More pressure, Mr. Spencer."

"Shawn…" corrected the psychic. "M' Dad's…'Mr. Spencer'."

He could almost feel Lee smile. "Alright, I'll try to remember that. Brace yourself. When I break through into your chest cavity, it's gonna hurt, but there's no good way to anesthetize the pleura."

"Okay." Shawn grit his teeth and clenched his eyes shut in anticipation.

At first, it was an uncomfortable pressure sensation as he felt the clamp tunnel through the muscle and over a rib. Then a sharp, blinding-white stabbing as the clamp entered his chest, followed by a 'whoosh' of air escaping. The pain as the tube was guided into the hole was nothing compared to the relief of finally being able to breathe again. The cold sweat that broke out on his forehead rolled into his hair, mixing with the drying rain. He barely heard Dr. Lee announce, "No hemothorax, but it looks like the pneumothorax was a tension."

"Here's part of the bloodloss; fractured pelvis." Dr. Lavely's voice floated into Shawn's ears, distracting him from Dr. Lee as he sutured the chest tube in place.

"Ultrasound's here. We'll get a FAST exam as soon as I get the tube taped down."

Suddenly Dr. Lavely's voice was at Shawn's right ear, and his eyes flew open in surprise. "Mr. Spencer, do you hurt anywhere besides your chest?"

"Left leg, below my knee," he replied without hesitation.

"Anywhere else? How about here?" A gentle but firm hand pressed different areas of his abdominal wall, but nothing hurt until it got low on the left side.

"There, just a little."

"You have a pelvic fracture." A hand went to each hipbone and rocked him back and forth. "Seems pretty stable, though. Anything else hurt?"

"Well, I have a headache..."

"Anything else?"

Shawn cast about, trying to inventory his extremities. Finally at a loss, he frowned and hazarded, "No, I don't think so…"

"Fine. Let us know if anything else starts hurting." Addressing the room in general, Dr. Lavely instructed, "OK, get him off that backboard and get rid of the collar. We need a FAST exam, then plain films of his left tib/fib. When that's done, CT his head and abdomen, for completeness. And don't forget to check tube placement."

Lee nodded. "Where will you be, when we get the results?" he asked.

"I'm going to go find his family, give them an update." So saying, he strode from the room.

Shawn's eyes widened in realization. "Is my Dad here?!?" he gasped.

"He's probably in the waiting room. I was told that the police called him while you were still at the scene." Lee finished taping the tube to his chest with what felt like a full roll of spongy stickiness, then attached it to a device that began bubbling like a witch's cauldron. A turn on the suction gauge on the wall made the percolating decrease to a low, background noise. "Don't worry. Dr. Lavely just went out to reassure him. You're going to be fine."

Shawn groaned and closed his eyes. "No I won't. He's gonna kill me."

-----------------

When the detectives had arrived at the hospital, they were shuffled off to the main waiting room for the E.D. The night had been busy, and despite the early hour the room was packed with sniffling children, groaning adults holding various bits of anatomy, and the occasional drunk 'sleeping it off' in one of the hard, plastic chairs. Less than ten minutes after they settled in to wait, Henry Spencer blew into the room like his own personal hurricane. Juliet waved him over to their spot against the wall, where they had managed to save him a seat.

"Have you heard anything?" he demanded as soon as he was within speaking distance.

Juliet shook her head. "We just got here a few minutes ago. The doctors are with him now."

Taking the proffered seat next to Carlton, he asked, "What happened, anyway?"

Lassiter's tired eyes met his. "Hit and run; drunk driver."

Henry was confused. "What, on his motorcycle?"

"No, he was on foot."

Henry shook his head, brow furrowing. "Really? That's surprising. I taught Shawn to be more aware of his surroundings than that." He sat back with a huff, crossing his arms and staring at the far wall.

Lassiter was quiet for a minute, eyes shifting away momentarily in discomfort before returning to the retired detective. With a sigh, he commented, "He _was _aware of his surroundings. I wasn't. He pushed _me_ out of the way of that truck. He just didn't manage to get completely clear himself."

Henry swiveled to stare at him, incredulous. "He pushed you…?"

"Yes. He saw the pickup. I didn't. Although what possessed him to tackle me…" Carlton's last statement was almost a question. His next words were muttered, but his conscience insisted they be said. "He probably saved my life."

Henry grunted in acknowledgement, returning his stare to the far wall. "Now _that_ doesn't surprise me. He's a good kid. A bit impulsive, but a good kid nonetheless."

Juliet was touched by the grudging pride she heard in the older Spencer's tone, but refrained from commenting. Instead, she diverted the conversation. "Does anyone want some coffee? Thought I'd make a run to the vending machines down the hall; I could sure use a cup."

"Thank you, O'Hara," replied Lassiter with formality. "Three creams..."

"Four sugars," she completed. "Mr. Spencer?" she verbally nudged when the older man remained immobile, staring at the air in front of him.

"Hmmm?" asked Henry, suddenly turning to look at her.

"Coffee?"

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks, though." He resumed his pointed gaze at nothing, clearly lost in thought.

All eyes turned as the door to the waiting room flew open. However, instead of the anticipated update on Shawn's condition, a worried Burton Guster appeared. Spotting the group immediately, he hurried over, wringing his hands. Despite the early hour, he was impeccably neat and tidy, dressed as if he were just heading into work. The worry on his face belied the impression, however.

"Mr. Spencer! Detectives! Any word on Shawn?"

"Not yet," grunted Henry. "Have a seat."

Gus did, with alacrity, then leaned forward to peer at his friend's father. "What happened, anyway? All I heard was that he had been in an accident. Was it his motorcyle?"

Lassiter jumped to his feet, throwing up his hands and startling a drunk sleeping nearby. "Oh, for the love of…I'm not going through it a second time. O'Hara, you tell him. I'm going to get our coffee." Without another word he stalked from the room, unsuccessfully trying to slam the door behind him.

Gus stared uncomprehendingly after the retreating form. Finally he muttered, "What was that all about?"

Juliet, torn between running after her partner and explaining his actions, finally sat down with a sigh. "He's just feeling guilty. Shawn pushed him out of the way of a drunk driver, and managed to get hit himself."

Gus stared at her, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Shawn? Saved Lassiter?!?"

Juliet smiled gently. "Yes, he did. He saw the truck, or had a 'vision' or something…"

Henry snorted, but didn't comment.

"We were leaving a bar after trying to interview a witness, and ran into him outside. He started to talk to me in the doorway, but suddenly ran into the street after Detective Lassiter. He pushed him out of the way of that truck just in the nick of time." She pursed her lips contemplatively. "I think Carlton feels guilty."

"He should," growled Henry, narrowing his eyes.

"Now wait just one second…" O'Hara began hotly. Any comment she might have made, however, was cut off by a doctor entering the room.

"Family of Shawn Spencer?" he asked.

"Here." Henry practically jumped to his feet. The doctor smiled reassuringly and approached the group, gesturing for Henry to resume his seat.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Lavely. I'm the surgeon treating Mr. Spencer."

"I'm Shawn's father. How's he doing?" The elder Spencer couldn't keep the anxiety from his voice, all earlier condemnation forgotten.

The surgeon took a seat next to the concerned group. "I won't lie to you; he's pretty badly injured. But it could have been much worse." He took a deep breath, then continued. "He's probably got a concussion, but the CT scan is still pending. He doesn't have any spinal fractures, so he's in no danger of paralysis. He's got three broken ribs on the left, with a tension pneumothorax, but that's being treated effectively with a chest tube. These sorts of injuries rarely need surgery. He has some pretty impressive bruising, but his abdomen is otherwise benign. We're getting scans to rule out minor intra-abdominal bleeding, however. His most significant injuries are a stable pelvic fracture with a probable retroperitoneal hematoma that we'll need to keep an eye on, and a probable broken left leg that we're x-raying right now."

Mr. Spencer's brow crinkled in concentration. "Let me make sure I've got this; Shawn has a concussion, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken hip with some bleeding, and a broken leg."

Dr. Lavely smiled. "Exactly. Nothing requiring surgery so far. The leg will be splinted until the swelling goes down, then we can put it in a cast. He'll be on Q2-hour neuro checks for twenty-four hours assuming his cat scan is clear, and we'll be checking serial hematocrits to see if he needs a transfusion. Other than that and pain control, he should be fine."

"When will the tube come out of his chest?" asked Gus worriedly.

"Once his lung has healed. It will stop leaking air, then we'll take it off suction and make sure his lung stays inflated. We only pull it out after we're sure we won't have to reinsert it."

"How long does that usually take?" asked Henry, noting that the doctor hadn't really answered Gus's question.

"Usually a couple of days," he replied, smiling. "Barring complications, he should be fine." He stood, extending his hand to Henry. "It was nice meeting you. My team will be taking care of your son while he's here, but don't hesitate to find me if you have any problems." Mr. Spencer stood and shook his hand. As he turned to go, the attending added, "Once we finish the tests we'll get him to a room; you can visit him there. If anything changes in the meantime, I'll make sure someone lets you know."

"Thank you, doctor."

TBC….

Author's Note: So? Too technical? Too much medical detail?


	3. Visiting Hours

Author's note: Yes, I'm still alive. Just a bit of a writer's block, I guess…

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 3

Lassiter stomped down the deserted hallway, mind whirling unpleasantly. He'd never admit it aloud, but he _was_ feeling guilty. If he'd just been paying more attention… '_Damn that Spencer. Why'd he __do__ that? Why'd he jump in front of that truck?!? Now I'm stuck dealing with his hysterical friends and family.'_ He pointedly ignored the fact that neither Henry nor Gus had reacted unreasonably to the accident, much less 'hysterically'.

Pushing open the door to the vending machine area, he dug out a handful of loose change from his pocket, sorting out 75 cents and inserting it into the slot by force of habit. _'I'm not some invalid; I can jump out of the way as well as the next guy.'_ He actively refused to recall Shawn's attempted warning, and his own lack of response at the time, as he absent-mindedly massaged his bruised, aching shoulder where it had struck the pavement. He considered the coffee choices and pressed a button. Setting the first cup on a nearby counter, he dug out another 75 cents for the second.

_'Now he's injured - you'd think a 'psychic' would know better,' _ he grumbled under his breath. Setting the second coffee next to the first, he began adding the requisite creams and sugars for himself and O'Hara.

_'What was he doing at that bar, anyway? How'd he even know Freeport was there?'_ He picked up the two cups and made his way back to the waiting room, still ruminating. He was uncomfortably aware that he was merely distracting himself from the guilt lurking at the edge of his thoughts; getting angry at Spencer was more comfortable than worrying about him. Drawing his lips into a firm line, he pushed open the door with his hip.

The detective immediately noticed the change in the atmosphere surrounding the waiting group; everyone seemed hopeful and relieved. Quirking an eyebrow inquiringly at his partner, his pace instinctively quickened. Her eyes met his with a not-quite-smile as she gratefully took the proffered cup.

"So, I take it there was news?" he asked.

It was Henry that answered. "The doctor thinks he'll be OK. Sounds like he may spend a few days in the hospital, then some time at home recovering, but ultimately he should be fine."

Lassiter inadvertently sighed in relief, then caught himself and faked a cough to cover. Everyone pretended not to notice, so he took his hand down and cleared his throat. "When can we see him?"

"When he gets to a room. They're still running some tests." Gus was calmest when imparting information. His still-twisting hands belied his quiet tones, though.

Lassiter nodded, then scrubbed suddenly-tired eyes with his fist. He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Huh. It's almost 7 a.m." He glanced over at his partner. "I'll just call the precinct and let them know where we are." He didn't suggest that they leave before seeing the psychic; in fact, the thought never occurred to him. Handing a grateful O'Hara her coffee, he headed to the payphones in the hallway.

It was another hour before a nurse came to let the group know that Shawn had been taken to a room. No other injuries had been identified, and he was expected to make a full recovery. They were admonished to keep the initial visit short, however, as he had been given pain medication and needed his rest.

Still, Henry paused in surprise when he pushed open the door to his son's room. He quickly took in the cardiac monitor, the five separate IV bags, the BP cuff, the pulse oximeter, the plueravac, and the O2 canula attached to the still form, and concluded that his son wasn't quite 'out of the woods' just yet. As often as Shawn had protested against growing up, Henry couldn't remember the last time he'd looked so young and frail. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his resolve and strode towards the sleeping form.

He couldn't explain why, but he had to hear Shawn speak. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the older man shook him gently. He was gratified to see the blue eyes blink open blearily.

Focussing with effort on the face above him, Shawn croaked out, "Dad?" rather hesitantly.

"Yeah, kid, I'm here." Something sharp and painful unclenched in his stomach.

"S'rry," Shawn mumbled, eyes sliding to half-mast.

Henry's brows crinkled in confusion. "What are you sorry for, Shawn?"

"Not fast enough…"

Henry snorted derisively. "Kid, you saved a life last night. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Shawn's eyes snapped open in surprise, fixing his father with a disconcerting intensity. "I thought you'd be mad."

Henry pursed his lips grimly, taking a deep breath and biting back his initial response. 'Not at _you_,' wouldn't help anybody, particularly as Lassiter was in the room. The detective was clearly already blaming himself; maybe he'd learn something from this incident. So the retired cop settled for, "Then I guess you don't know me very well."

Shawn studied his face for another intense moment before grunting, "Huh," and flicking his eyes to the other visitors in his room, his face lightened considerably. "Jules! Gus! Lassie! You're all here! Hey, anybody bring cards? We could get a great poker game going…"

Juliet smiled and touched his hand. "Sorry, Shawn, maybe next time. We just wanted to make sure you were OK before we headed back to the precinct. Some of us have to work, you know," she teased.

The psychic pouted dramatically. "You'll come back later?" he whined.

"Count on it." Juliet's smile lit up her face, and Shawn smiled in return.

"The nurse said to keep this first visit short and let you rest; is there anything we can get you?" asked Henry with surprising gentleness.

Shawn focussed blearily back at his hovering father. "Maybe some pineapple?" he suggested.

"I'll take care of that. I think we'll need to stick to smoothies at first, though, when the hospital lets you eat." Gus knew the ins and outs of medical care better than the rest of the group. "They'll probably have you NPO for a few hours until they're sure you aren't going to blled somewhere unexpected and go to the OR."

Henry was immediately alarmed. "Is that likely?" he demanded of Shawn's best buddy.

Gus held up his hands reassuringly. "No, I'm not even sure they're going to do it - but it is a standard precaution in cases like this."

"What - starvation as therapy?" Shawn was pouting again.

Gus rolled his eyes. "Sorry I even mentioned it. You're gonna sleep through most of today, anyway; I doubt you'll even notice. I'll check before I come back this afternoon and see if you're allowed to eat yet - if you are, I'll come bearing smoothies!"

Shawn smiled and let his eyes slide shut. "Sounds good, partner. I'll be right here." Within seconds he was softly snoring.

The corner of Henry's mouth quirked up fondly. "Guess that's our cue to go." Glancing up at Gus, he stated, "I'll check at the nurses' station to see when we're allowed back in to see him."

Juliet piped up, "We'll swing by after work, too. Could you let us know if anything changes, Mr. Spencer?"

Henry nodded; he was fond of the young detective. "Sure. I have your number." Glancing back as they exited, he critically examined the sleeping form. "He should be all right, from all we've heard. He'll milk this for everything he's worth, though."

Juliet grinned knowingly. "Yes, he will. I'll even let him get away with it for a week or two. After all, he saved my partner's life!" She gently punched the heretofore silent Lassiter in the shoulder.

Lassie suddenly became aware of his surroundings as they entered the hall. Clearing his throat, he seemed on the verge of speaking, but settled for nodding instead. Juliet tilted her head to the side questioningly, and he mumbled self-consciously, "Yes, he did." Before striding off down the corridor. "O'Hara, you coming? We have work to do!"

TBC….


End file.
